Gaby tweezed her eyebrows.
Her man.
She could not believe how fast life moved, how quickly everything changed. In her hour of need, God sent her a miracle. And she had doubted. Thus was grace made evident. Even she, the least deserving, received manna in the desert. She was mad with ecstasy, and she didn’t know if it was romance or religion, and she didn’t care.
She could not contain herself, and rather than descend the stairs slowly, like a fine lady, she thundered down and leapt off the last three steps to crash onto the wooden floor.
Tomás, in his office, shouted, “Who let a buffalo in the house!”
She spun before the hallway mirror, trying her dance steps, working the tassels of her shawl. She could not stop smiling. She spun out the door and sashayed onto the porch. She looked across the yard and saw a disheveled man at the gate, sitting miserably on a small carriage. She raised her hand in a tentative greeting.
“Saint,” he called. An Americano. “Please!”
She stepped to the ground and gestured for him to come forward. He jumped down, rushed to her, and took her hands in his.
“My name is Rosencrans,” he said. “I am a friend of your father’s. Please, I—” He closed his eyes. He was frantic. “My son. They can’t do anything. Dr. Burtch.”
“What is wrong with your son?” she asked in Spanish.
“Cerebral infection. He is dying. Can you help him? Please?”
Jamie Rosencrans lay abed, twisted in agony, barely able to breathe. When Teresita entered his room, he did not know if he was seeing an angel or not. She made his eyes pop wide when she came through the door, all rustling colored skirts and colorful braids. He was so surprised that for a moment he didn’t notice the deep throbbing pain that poured out of the back of his head and twisted his body. His mother kept kissing the angel’s hands. The room smelled of sweat and bread and urine. He made terrible choking whistles as he wrestled with the air.
“His lungs!” his mother cried.
“Yes, I hear.”
“His whole body is going!”
“I see.”
She came to him and smiled. Her eyes. They were so lulling. He lay and stared up at her. He himself looked like a starving angel to her. The little bones of his chest, the sad sugar bones of his face glowing through the skin nearly clear from the pain.
Teresita put her hand on his brow. He gasped. He arched his back a little.
“¿Duele?” she asked him.
He understood her.
He nodded.
“¿Puedes caminar?”
“No,” he whispered. “I can’t walk no more.”
She nodded. She looked at his mother and father and said, “Please.” She gestured toward the door. They did not want to leave the room. They were weeping openly, though Mr. Rosencrans was trying hard to hide it. “Please,” she repeated.
They backed out. She closed the door. She sat on the bed with Jamie. The entire bed was wet with his sweat and his dribbles.
“Is bad, your pain?”
“Yes.”
She smoothed his blond hair out of his face.
“Are you scared?”
One tear rolled out of his eye.
“No.”
“Tired?”
“Yes.”
She put her hand upon his brow.
“Do you know where you go when you die?”
He shook his head. He did not know what language she was speaking, but he could understand her perfectly.
“Do you know who I am?”
He shook his head.
“I am Teresita.”
“Jamie,” he whispered.
“Yes, I know.”
She motioned with her hand for him to move over. He was able to scoot a few inches to the left. She lay a white towel on the wet spot on the mattress, and she kicked off her sandals and lay down beside him. She put out her arm and said, “Come to me.” He nestled against her. She embraced him, brought his little face to her breast. “Listen to my heart,” she said. He listened.
“I was dead once,” she said. “Can you believe that, Jamie? I died. It was a long time ago. And I want you to know that death is not terrible.”
“No?”
“No. Death is peaceful. It is only a door. On the other side—do you like deer?”
He smiled.
“Who doesn’t like deer, Jamie? Right?”
“Right.”
“Deer and grandmothers. They wait for you.”
Jamie closed his eyes.
“I miss Maw-Maw,” he admitted.
“She misses you. But she is in no hurry for you to get there.”
She tickled him so lightly she barely felt it, but he did and he giggled weakly and almost squirmed.
“Hurts so bad, though,” he said.
“Listen to my voice, Jamie. Can you do that for me? Can you listen to my voice? Listen to my heart? Hold on to me?”
“Yes.”
“Can you smell the roses?”
“Yes.”
“When I died and went to the other world, that smell came to me. That way you know I am telling you the truth. Because people don’t smell like roses, do they?”
“Father smells like tobacco,” he said. “And sweat.”
She laughed.
“Trust the roses, then. I was there for a short while. But I came back home. I had work to do. And do you know what that work is?”
“What?”
“I was sent back here to ease the suffering of God’s little ones.”
“Like who?”
“Like you, Jamie.”
He was quiet.
“You can’t do that.”
“I can.”
He was quiet again.
“Why?”
“I love you.”
He put his arm around her.
“How?”
“By loving you. I just told you.”
“Mother loves me. Father loves me. But I’m dying.”
“Mother has not learned. I have learned.”
They could hear a clock ticking outside the room. Teresita could hear Mr. and Mrs. Rosencrans listening at the door. Jamie’s breath whistled.
“How is your pain?” she asked.
He paused, as if listening for it.
“Better,” he said.
“Good.” She laid her free hand on his face. She made a small sign on his forehead with her thumb. “Remember that death is not terrible. It is sad, though. What is sad is that we would miss you terribly if you left us now. We would all cry, Jamie. And I have to tell you that you will die. One day. Not today. Not tomorrow. I have looked into you and seen the sickness, and I am taking it from you and giving it to God. Let God have it! Let God put it into a worm or a beetle!”
Jamie laughed softly.
“That’s silly.”
“I have seen you are a good boy, and I know I would miss you if you died. So I won’t let you die. I am a terrible woman! I am selfish! You are simply too handsome to die right now.”
“Aw.” He buried his face, mortified and delighted.
“Girls like me need boys like you in this world.”
He smiled. He was so tired now. He felt like he was sinking through the bed, through the floor, sinking into the earth itself.
“I will let you sleep. You want to sleep now, do you not? Yes, I know. You can sleep now, Jamie, and you will wake up stronger tomorrow. You will dream tonight of hummingbirds. Go with them. I know you cannot walk now, but the hummingbirds will teach you to fly in your sleep. They are called semalú. Can you say it?”
“Semalú,” he whispered.
“Good. You will wake up tomorrow. When you do, you must eat. Eat soup. Do you promise?”
He nodded.
“The day after tomorrow, I want you to sit up and hug your mother. In three days, I want you to get out of this bed and hug your father. Will you do this for me?”
He was starting to yawn.
“I’ll… try.”
“No. You will not try. You will do it. Say it.”
“I’m tired.”
“Say it, Jamie.”
He smiled into her ribs.
“I… will… rise.”
She kissed his forehead.
“Good boy,” she said. But he was already asleep.
She went out to the hall.
“Three days,” she said. “Better then. Three weeks”—she waved her hands before her—“healed.”
Mrs. Rosencrans slumped against her husband and put her hand over her mouth.
Teresita said, “Lios emak weye.”
She turned and walked out the door, thinking about the dance.
Thirty-Two
THE NIGHT BEFORE THE dance, Lupe staggered around inside his cabin as if drunk. But he was never drunk. His body was on fire. His mind was twisting in his skull in convulsive spasms. “I am wrathy,” he muttered. “I am accursed.” He stepped out into the cold night. He shivered, but not from the icy air—it was the fire. He threw his shirt to the ground. In each hand, he took up a belduque knife. The edges of night were blackening, bruised, poisoned with the eternal dark. Lupe whispered, “My Father hangs in the sky.” No one heard or answered except for the owl, watching with yellow eyes. “I serve You.” He clutched his knives and revealed them to the stars. “I serve. I am unworthy. I am incapable.” He began his nightly fighting practice. He spun, thrust, slashed, jabbed. Spun, thrust, slashed, jabbed. Down low. Whipping his body erect. Low again. He absorbed the planet’s energies as they flowed from Arctic to Antarctic. Magnetism coursed all down his body. He extended his arms out, a knife in each fist, and the icy dew collected on him, and his eyes saw nothing. Spun, thrust, slashed, jabbed. In the moonlight, the whirling blades gleamed cold white and silver all around him, blurred with his speed, like terrible wings.
Thirty-Three
“I HAVE NO HEART,” Lupe told her.
The paper lanterns were bobbing in the breeze; paper banners and papel picado flags moved like colorful wings in the lamplight. Townspeople shuffled along, laughing and spooning, and the music was hilarious and bright—all tubas and accordions, drums and a trumpet.
Teresita had her arm through his. She thought he was being a vaquero, a macho, all bluster, all dark mysteries like all the boys she had ever known.
“Oh, you,” she said, giggling. “I took your heart.”
His jaw muscles rippled.
“Love, silly! You need to say pretty things to me.”
“Like what?”
“Like ‘Teresita, you have taken my heart. Teresita, you have overwhelmed my soul.’ ”
“I have no soul.”
She sighed but wasn’t going to let his mood ruin her night.
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I have enough soul for both of us.”
He had dressed in his best black suit. He had strapped his Buntline revolver to his right hip, and it hung nearly to his knee; the bowie was on his left hip. He wore a gray Mexican sombrero.
“I haven’t seen many of those since I left Sonora,” she said.
“In honor of you.”
That was more like it. At least he was making some effort. She would teach him how to speak to a woman.
She glanced at all his weaponry.
“Are we expecting a war?” she asked.
“Always.”
But even Lupe was able to see his thunderous machismo was a bit amusing, and he smiled. He seemed embarrassed. She loved him for that too.
Anita tagged along behind them, and Lupe took his first dance with her. Teresita watched as he gently placed her feet on his black boots and swept her around the dance floor. Teresita laughed. She put her hands over her heart in a prayerful pose of devotion. She had laughed a million times at women acting like she was acting now, and she didn’t care. The smells of popcorn and churros, carne asada and lemonade, filled the air around her. Al Fernandez was running around the perimeter in his railroad cap. Dr. Burtch managed a few awkward steps with his wife. They waved at Teresita. She laughed. Everything was so bright, so new. So funny. There was Segundo, squiring that fat girl of his as if she were the Queen of America. Teresita laughed again.
The first dance ended, and Lupe brought Anita to Teresita. The other children rushed in and surrounded Anita and bore her away in a controversy of whispers and shrieks. The band struck up a waltz.
Lupe bent to her in a small bow and extended his hand. Teresita tipped her head and took his fingers in hers. He spun her onto the floor and they danced, crashing into Segundo and Dolores only twice as they all circled.
Don Tomás Urrea arrived astride Caballito Urrea. He, too, was dressed in black. He wore his tightest pantalones (Gaby had been forced to cut a wedge in the back of them so they’d button over his gut). The legs of his pants gleamed along their outer seams with rows of silver coins. His belt was black leather with silver conchas. He wore his frilled white shirt and his tight black jacket cut high at the waist and embroidered with a shining scorpion on the back. Delicate red needlework etched the smallest red roses at each breast and at each cuff. He wore his twin .44s butts-out for fast cross-draw. His boots were brilliantly shined, and his spurs were miracles of gold and silver. He, too, wore a vast sombrero, though his was night black and worked with silver thread and had two small silver horseshoes affixed to the crown. He nudged Caballito Urrea into proud little sidesteps and dancing head bobs before kicking his right foot over the pommel, leaping off, and landing amid the dancers with his hat in his hand and a great shout of “¡Ajúa!” from him, Segundo, and the few buckaroos working out of Cabora Norte. It was a pure dose of real México, México Lindo, and he wanted to know how the cabrones liked that! He strutted. His chest extended beyond his gut. His pistolas squeaked and rattled in their holsters. He embraced Mrs. Burtch, shied away from Dolores, accepted three copas in a row of wine and tequila and whiskey, and he raised each in a toast to Clifton, to his Gabriela, who hid her face behind a fan—the vixen!—in the shadows beside the churro stand, to America itself. “¡Salud!” he bellowed. They clapped. They swooned. Tomás Urrea taught everybody what a man was: Soy todo un hombre, he explained to himself.
He said to Segundo, “It is good to be king, my friend.”
“Must be,” the pistolero replied.
“A lariat!” Tomás shouted, and as if by magic—or prearrangement—a worker stepped forth and provided the patrón with twenty feet of rope knotted in a loose lasso. Tomás removed his hat and placed it on Al Fernandez’s head, on top of the boy’s trainman’s cap. He bowed. He commenced to spinning the lasso over his head. Whistles. Claps. Heels stomping. He whirled the loop of rope into a blur, then brought it down before him, spinning vertically now, forming a blurred window in the universe, and he stepped through the lasso and back. He skipped, he danced. The drummer took up the beat. Tomás hopped on one foot, whirled, sent the lasso dangerously close to the group of ladies, and whooshed it back so it passed around him like an ocean wave and was suddenly behind him. And up—they watched it rise and form a small tornado above his head. The rope extended to its farthest reach, and the open mouth of the lasso formed a perfect O in the air. With a flick of the wrist, with a dancer’s grace, Tomás spun on his heel and dropped the loop over Teresita and cinched it tight. He pulled her, hand over hand, away from Lupe’s side. She resisted, laughed, conceded, and rushed to her father. They clutched in a grand embrace as the populace shouted.
“Oh, Father!” She laughed.
He tipped his head to her ear and said, “Stay away from that bastard.”
He released her and strode into the shadows, retrieving his hat from Al’s head, throwing winks and nods. It was utter madness. If they had been carrying roses, the people would have showered him with petals. The shouting sounded like it would never stop.
“Yes, cabrones: What did you think of that?”
The Benson boys were perfectly happy to take a break when a group of local musicians appeared. The Bensons piled the beef and tort
illas high. They guzzled wine punch and beer as the locals raised a ruckus with guitars, violins, and a bajo sexto; deeply nostalgic Hispanos tried to recall the old dance steps, the highly formalized Mexican ranchero pasos they had known as children. All the while Tomás and Gabriela commanded the center of the dance floor; he was all boot heels and ringing rowels, and she was all flaring skirts and high steps.
Teresita and Lupe walked around the outside of the crowd, murmuring about the moon and the clouds, about God and children. They both wanted children. Lupe dreamed of a small house on a cliff above the Pacific. He wanted to learn to fish. In his mind, tuna, lobster, and abalone were great treasures.
“Where will this palace be?” she asked.
He shrugged.
“Guaymas,” he said. “Mazatlán.”
“Then you will have to live alone,” she teased. “For I cannot return to Mexico.”
He nodded.
“Eso sí está cabrón,” he conceded. He stopped and listened to the music. “California then. It doesn’t matter.”
California!
“My brother is in San Francisco,” she said. “We could go there.”
They walked.
“You think you’re so much better than me,” he said abruptly and disentangled his arm from hers and went to the sizzling taco brazier and snapped his fingers at the cook.
Anita was staring at Teresita.
“Where did you come from?” Teresita said.
“I was here.” Anita scratched at a scab on her knee. “He’s mean to you.”
“Not always.”
They watched him eat with his mouth open. But he was so handsome. He was so tall.
“Love,” Teresita said, as if suddenly realizing it to her great surprise, “is not easy.”
She went to her man.
His angers were brief. They passed like small storm squalls and were gone. He always made an effort to appease her after he’d erupted. In those moments, his kindness and grace were complete. His attention was tender and humorous. His affection felt incendiary, burning out of his eyes and illuminating her. He did not know poetry, but in those moments, he was poetry.
They took the floor. He held his hands behind his back, and he danced with crisp taconazos, his boots clocking like the hooves of stallions. And she dipped and swayed, holding the sides of her skirts up and out, at once joining him and evading him. He strutted like a rooster, and she was a dove shying away at the last instant. He came close—she allowed it. He tipped his face to hers and they circled, clicking their heels, until she broke away gently and smiled as she swirled her skirts. They formed blossoms around her, wings. He backed away, shied his great hat to the right, and moved around and toward her again. They ended the dance in a ritual embrace, and he snuck a fast kiss to her cheek as the audience applauded them.
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